Lurker Of An Open Diary
by Kurtbert
Summary: Kurt is acting strangely the day of the Diva-off and Mr. Schue notices. Will he get his answers as to why? One-shot set during Wheels.


A/N-This isn't a fic that I've spent months perfecting (okay, that's a lie, but it's only been 3, whichis not enough for perfection for me). Will might seem slightly OOC toward the end, but I tried while still having no one confront Kurt on the Diva-off. Takes place during "Wheels". Enjoy! (hopefully)

Disclaimer: Last time I checked, Kurt still doesn't rule the world. When he does, that means I own Glee and it's characters. (I do own a Kurt plushie, though)

"Pop-Quiz!" I announce, handing out quizzes to the class. Everyone groans, everyone except you. You've been acting strangely all day, wearing the same expression. You look glum, pained. You've walked with your head down all day. You didn't even fight back when the jocks threw you in the dumpster. Are you okay?

Maybe you're just worried about the diva off at glee this afternoon. No, that can't be it: wrong emotions. Emma's been teaching me about body language, and I'm trying to read you. I can't, and that's frustrating me. I want to help you, but you won't let me. I walk over to give you your paper, and you turn away, trying to separate us as much as possible.

I'm in the teacher's lounge; grading papers while eating a PB&J that Emma gave me. I'm grading yours, confused as to why there is a drop of water on the paper, made noticeable by a bleeding blue letter. I should've noticed how your eyes were glossy and how your lips were pressed together when you handed it in. You're still not Kurt Hummel, and I'm still clueless to what is causing this.

_Why are you here?_ It's the students' lunch period and you are at your locker, holding a sleeve of a wool sweater in your hand while stroking the top with your thumb. Your head is down and your shoulders are hunched, like you're trying to hide. I stop behind you and tap your shoulder. You turn around (almost knocking into me), looking alarmed. You ease when you see that it is only me.

"Kurt, is something wrong?" Something obviously is, but you haven't been sharing it with anyone. You take a jagged breath, put on a fake smile, and shake your head. "It's nothing, really," you say, "just nervous." Your lie is unconvincing, and you can tell by my face that I'm not buying it. Your eyes are threatening to spill the unshed tears building up, you have streaks of dried tears on your pink cheeks, your breathing is as jagged as a shale cliff, you are NOT fine. "It's personal," you revise, struggling to keep your composure.

I want to comfort you, not force you to tell me something that you don't want to, so I don't question you. "You know you can come to me if you want to talk about it." I know Emma is supposed to be the one he should go to, but I want to help. Against your wishes, a tear falls from your right eye and rolls down your cheek. "Thanks," you say as you wrap your arms around me. I return the hug, hoping it makes you feel better.

You don't talk to me. You don't talk to anyone. You are sitting on a stool near the band area. Mercedes, Mike, Artie, and Tina are surrounding you, but you don't notice. You are looking in the direction of the piano. The pained expression is back, it's like you've lost the Diva-Off before it has even started.

I announce the Diva-Off, acting excited and peppy when I'm really just worried about you. You give Mercedes a squeeze as she whispers words of encouragement in your ear. You only half smile, as if you don't want luck or a happy ending. You take a deep breath, reconstruct your facial expression and strut over to canter stage as if you are going to try.

From the moment you start, I can tell that you're out of it. Your singing is perfect, but you're only here in body. You don't look at the audience, being trapped in your thoughts as you are. Isn't this what you want, what you've been fighting for? You look sad, pained; why?

Then you look over at me, just for a moment, but it's enough. The tears brimming in your eyes all day are reappearing now. I can see that you know that you're going to lose, but you haven't done anything wrong. I thought too soon.

"And you won't bring me DOOOOOWN!" The sour note pierces everyone's ears. The high F was to everyone, "out of your range." Now Kurt, out of al the things you're good at, faking voice cracks is not one of them. For experienced ears, they could hear you willingly controlling every movement of your voice when it hit that note. I wonder why Rachel doesn't pick up on it. You just_ threw _the competition. _Why?_

That's the question that has been running over and over again in my mind since then; even now, after school as I wander the empty, silent hallways. As I come closer to the choir room, I hear the tinkling notes of a piano and a bell-like voice, with little, unfamiliar crackles: your voice. I stand in the doorway, making my entrance silent. You're singing the song, the same song that anyone in his or her right mind would never want to hear again after what happened to you. All the tears that you've been keeping held back have broken the dam and are flooding down your face and turning your eyes a fiery red. Your voice cracks for real in some places, but not the place you had faked before. The high F was perfect; I've never doubted it, especially as it rings through the air. More tears cascade down your cheeks as the perfection of the note rubs the fact that you threw the competition in your face.

You start to plunk out random minor and diminished chords, something similar to what I do on my guitar when I'm upset and there are no songs to describe my feelings. The notes get louder and harsher until you're just banging random notes on the piano, accompanying it with sobs. First you just lay your arm on the keys and rest your head in the crook of your elbow, but it turns out to be too little. Your legs curl up onto the bench and you lower your upper-body to curl into a fetal position. You're lying there, so sad and helpless, and I want to help, but my feet fail me.

"I'm sorry, Mom" escapes your lips, barely blubbering out audibly. Why are you apologizing to your mother? You haven't done anything wrong. "I want to show you that I've become someone you can be proud of, but I couldn't; at least not without breaking my promise to take care of Dad. He already knows that his son's a f-fag, he doesn't need to be reminded every day through anonymous phone calls."

You can't believe how much that hurts me to hear; how I wince when you call yourself such a vulgar, degrading, horrible name; how out of all the time I've known you and considered you close, I didn't even know that your mother was _dead._ I should've been more aware of my surroundings because, if I was, I might've been able to actually see the abuse you must go through every single day. If you were to the point of anonymous people calling your dad to bully you as your statement inferred, I must've been practically blind about what had happened before.

It just isn't fair how people like you are treated in this town. You should be admired, Kurt. I admire you. You have more balls than all of those bullies put together to go through everything that you have and still remain so positive and sweet. You are strong and confident to everyone around you, two attributes that have probably given you the title of a diva. You are strong, but seeing what you've sacrificed for your father no matter how it's affected you proves that you are too good for that title. Any parent would be proud of you Kurt, not because of a solo, but because of _you_. You are so insecure underneath that designer-clad facade. You feel the need to be loved by those close to you, the ones you would show this side to willingly.

I'm not one of those people. I'm just one of your teachers standing in a doorway, helplessly watching their student pour their feelings out to their deceased mother through one-way conversations, a reader of an open diary. I stumbled upon this side of you by chance; you never intended or intend for me to see _you_, but you are loved by me.

I want nothing more than to envelop you in my arms as I did Finn when he learned about Quinn, than to tell you all of these things myself, but I can't. Instead, after a long time, I do something I am completely ashamed of. You slide off the bench, grab your belongings, and head to the door opposite of the one I am in. You rub the last tears from your red, puffy, eyes, sniffle in a shaky, deep, breath, puff out your chest a bit, lift your chin, and strut down the hall and out the door. All of this as I hide from your line of sight, not even strong enough to face you.

Reviews/Critiques/Comments are still love!


End file.
